


Feme Sole

by blotsandcreases



Series: Author's Favourites [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, love letter to the north and to dorne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 00:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10451289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: “Rhaegar is dead,” Elia told Lady Lyanna. “The rebellion did not win, but its leaders remain. I am asking you to help me stabilise the realm.”Or, a kinder song for the Sun of Dorne and the Wolf Maid.





	

Stunned.

Elia felt her own hands slowly grasping at her cheeks. 

At her neck. 

At her arms. 

They felt rather strange, her hands. As if they were distant from her in their mindless wanderings along her other equally distant body parts. 

Lady Olga found her like that. 

Elia’s heavy purple skirts were rumpled after her tumble from the hidden passage. She was slumped on the rich Lysene rug, an old rug from the days of Aegon the Unworthy. Its lush thickness cradled Elia’s stunned weight, and muffled the thumps of the men who had been in the chamber. The dyed furs and embroidered textiles of the rug had felt very fine when Elia staggered from behind the tapestry, when the roaring rush of her heartbeat had thumped to a chilled stillness.

Thump, she had heard whilst biting on her fist to stay hidden. Thump.

Now she heard Lady Olga rushing towards her, crouching by her, and starting to sob.

“Your Grace! Oh, thank the gods! Your Grace, please, Your Grace!”

 _What is she pleading for?_ wondered a crucial part of Elia’s mind, which was still trickling back from behind the tapestry, dawdling there with the rest of Elia, leaving her numb. Stunned.

The patterns of the tapestry blurred at the edges. She’d been staring at this wall for quite some time now. Elia had been avoiding the rest of the chamber. Elia had been avoiding the lump somewhere behind her. 

It had saved her, this tapestry and the passage it concealed, once muttered to her by her uncle Prince Lewyn. Elia had used it to swiftly reach the place where she knew the maids would have taken Rhaenys and Aegon. But Elia had arrived too late.

Somewhere behind her was the lump, trailing a smattering of blood on the Lysene rug. There was a larger splotch of blood on the wall behind Elia, two wobbly red suns she had glimpsed. Thump, she had heard. Thump.

Elia refused to face that part of the chamber.

Where were her tears, thought Elia. She dragged her fingers down her cheeks, then gazed at her dry fingertips. There was something wrong with her. She had not gone mad.

There were plenty of tales of mothers wailing tears that could sink even the mightiest kingdom. Of losing their wits and will to live at the deaths of their children.

As if in singular focus, the verdant grass patterns on the tapestry sharpened. The rasp of her silk skirts whispered a protest against her skin. Elia clenched her fists and her nails bit into her palms.

Not today. Not Elia.

“Your Grace,” she heard Lady Olga say, “please, Princess Rhaenys lives.”

Elia sharply turned her head. She felt dizzy for a moment. “Where?”

“She hid under a bed, Your Grace. The princess lives.” Lady Olga’s voluptuous figure trembled and she wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with the spotted leopard of Santagar. “The king lives.”

 _That_ was not good news. Aerys the Mad. “The king.”

Elia pushed herself to her feet, still keeping her back to the filthy wall. Lady Olga scrambled up, and surprised Elia with a tremulous smile. “Yes, His Grace lives. King Rhaegar now, as he should be.”

Elia’s chest banged once. Twice.

She hurried to the door. When she swung it open she found her ladies in a tight anxious half-circle around her. Lady Nymella, heir to House Toland, wisps of her red hair curling with the blade of the spear she was clutching. Lady Delia of House Dalt had a sconce in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. Lady Myria, heir to House Jordayne, had a bloody dagger. Their silk-clad shoulders were pressed tight to one another, and beyond them Elia could see the bodies of her guardsmen, slain by those who had sacked the city.

For a fleeting moment she wished that Lady Ashara were here and at the same time she was thankful that her friend was not.

“Take the weapons from the bodies,” commanded Elia. Her voice sounded like someone else’s, still mild and papery but far away, even as everything around her seemed to focus with alarming clarity. 

It would be wise to arm themselves. Elia stooped to pick up a discarded crossbow. The wood and metal of the weapon were sure in her grasp. The unused bolts in another satchel were cold.

Elia had not had enough experience in weaponry but Mother had insisted that Elia learn how to defend herself, at least. Even skilled swordsmen had flesh to be pierced by arrows. Loading the crossbow, Elia vowed to have Rhaenys learn arms, to have her be as proficient as Oberyn and as the child’s adored Kingsguard, Ser Jaime.

“Who are here with us?” Elia asked. 

“Lannister men, Your Grace,” sneered Lady Delia. “They came in sacking the city. A rider from the Riverlands brought news of our king. Now they’re singing a different song.”

“It was they who killed these men,” Lady Olga said in a low voice as she accepted a used dagger from Lady Myria. “And – and inside the chamber. It was their work.”

Lady Nymella and Lady Myria wordlessly closed ranks in front of Elia, whilst Lady Olga and Lady Delia closely followed her. The long corridor was deathly silent as they carefully made their way. Shadows leapt and lengthened across the walls, and Elia was certain that some of the blood on the stone floors were still as warm as the wax in the sconces.

“And Aerys?” murmured Elia.

“Dead,” Lady Delia said, “by Ser Jaime’s hand.”

Good, thought Elia, just as a high-pitched voice from beyond them called, “Your Grace!”

Lord Varys’ plump figure wended its way from a bend in the corridor. “Your Grace,” he was saying, “my goodness. I was so worried. The gods are good indeed.” The slight winter light from a window hit his hairless face just then. Elia’s hand gripped harder on her crossbow. “Oh, my goodness! Your Grace! What happened?”

Lady Nymella sternly said, “You are speaking to the rightful queen, my lord.”

Mummer, Elia detachedly observed as she watched Lord Varys’ face fold into an appropriate expression, a placating smile for Elia and her ladies. She had never trusted him. She had never trusted his shapeless whispering mouth, especially his whisperings to Aerys. 

“Of course, my apologies.” Lord Varys bowed. “In my distress, I simply had the boldness to take it upon myself to escort our queen. I do hope –”

Elia let loose the bolt.

The sound of Lord Varys’ forehead crushing open was wetly loud. Lady Olga sucked in a breath, but other than that everything was surreally silent once more as Lord Varys crumpled to the ground.

Elia touched Lady Nymella’s elbow. “My lady.”

Lady Nymella inclined her head. Then she stepped forward. She plunged her spear into Lord Varys’ stomach, and then thrice in his chest, and in his stomach once more. Elia did not look away from the blood spraying on his powdered face. She had to be sure.

“Is it him?” Elia said. “Is the mummer dead?”

Lady Myria, her nose wrinkled and her dagger held aloft, tore up the hem of Lord Varys’ lilac robes and used it to wipe off the blood and powder on his face. Then she ran the tip of her dagger on his cheek. When she tried to peel away at the skin, as if it were a mask, only flesh came away.

They walked away from Lord Varys’ body with effects found on his person: a crystal bottle of smelling salts, a painted fan, and scraps of paper with truly horrible writing. 

Eventually they found Rhaenys squirrelled away inside a chest of gauntlets, in the armory with Ser Aron Santagar. 

Rhaenys, her black hair wild and her face grimy, immediately charged at Elia’s skirts and clung to Elia’s knees, sobbing. 

Elia crouched down to kiss Rhaenys’ dear little face, wiping away the tears with her thumbs. Elia couldn’t have children anymore lest she endanger her life, so she cooed Rhaenys’ sobs away with a low steady string of “Mother is here, my love, Mother is here,” whilst she thought, “Mother is here, Princess of Dragonstone.”

*

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

A fortnight later a rider arrived at dawn with the tidings that Rhaegar had succumbed to his wounds.

Elia stood by a carved window of her chambers, watching the faint pale sun struggle against the winter skies. The curtains were of pink satin, especially commissioned by Mother so that they might remind Elia of the Water Gardens where Elia had been aggressively encouraged to stay in as a child: to soak in the sun, and to strengthen her bones by playing with the other children, and to bring steel to her blood with sharp-tasting fruit. All done so that Elia might stop being “pale-lipped and fragile-boned.”

“Sweet and gentle Elia,” they always called her. “Delicate Elia.”

An hour after receiving the news of her royal husband’s death, Elia stood by her window and thought. She gently caressed the gold embroidery on the pink curtains, and thought.

Carefully, purposefully, Elia thought.

She thought of her dear friend Lady Ashara. 

Of Elia herself as a child in the Water Gardens, with Oberyn always pushing away the more excitable children from Elia, with Mother not letting her join some of the more daring games in the pools, with Doran always coddling Elia after every game when he visited.

Of Elia as a child holding out her hand to the newly-arrived Lady Ashara, and the younger girl taking it and beaming and simply asking, “Where will we go?” 

It had baffled Elia then, to be the one steering the hand holding hers.

“We will go to the pools,” Elia had said, “and we will play dunking pirates.”

“Dunking pirates sounds nice,” agreed Lady Ashara. “Shall we draw stones?”

Elia had drawn the pirate. Lady Ashara had not blinked or demurred, had not cast a worried and pitying look on Elia, but had just convinced her older brother Arthur to let Elia perch on his shoulders. When Elia had gleefully shrieked at being tumbled to the water by Lady Ashara, Oberyn had come charging to the pool, but Lady Ashara only grasped Elia’s hand as the two of them laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Where do you want to go?” Elia had asked, when they were a little older. “If you could go anywhere. If you could be anyone?”

Lady Ashara had closed her eyes against the sunlight filtering through the citrusy canopy and swung one leg upwards so that her ankle rested on her raised knee. “To Myr.” Her loud clear voice was so unlike Elia’s. The other children their age had often flocked to Lady Ashara to ask what they should play next. But Lady Ashara had always turned to grin at Elia and asked for Elia to share her ideas.

“They say that Myr has the best painters,” Lady Ashara had continued. “I should like to be a painter.”

“We will go to King’s Landing,” Elia had said, when they were older. “Mother has secured a match for me. I have asked her, too, and she told me that there is a Myrish screen painter who has set up trade there.”

Lady Ashara had laughed, never pausing in brushing Elia’s hair. “I’ve always wanted to meet a Myrish painter and learn the craft. I might consider running off to Myr. If Your Grace would permit me, of course.”

“Of course,” Elia had said, and found that she had meant it. Painting meant so much to Lady Ashara that she had taken to painting her brother’s shield and hers and Elia’s fans. Elia had added, with a smile, “If we continue to be friends.”

In the shadows of her bedchambers in Dragonstone, Elia had whispered, “He’s hurting me. He tries to be gentle and considerate, but it hurts. It hurts.”

Prince Rhaegar had been kind to Elia. He had always asked her how her day went. He had asked what her favourite songs were. He had repeatedly assured her that she had full reign on the household and could order her favourite foods as much as she liked. But Elia had never found warmth in him. No warmth in their comfortable silences. No warmth low in Elia’s belly in bed, even as she tried to find the oft-sung effusive beauty in his pale hair and cold fish eyes.

“Has His Grace taken you dry?” Lady Ashara had whispered back. 

“I am barely wet with him.” Elia had twisted her nightclothes in frustration. “I was wetter during that time Oberyn and I shared the lovely lady -”

“Then you must make Your Grace wet yourself,” Lady Ashara had said, trying to hide her smirk behind a pillow. Her dark purple eyes glinted behind her curtain of black hair. “Before you meet with him. Your Grace must do it yourself.”

And Elia had. She had done it herself. She had lain alone in bed and closed her eyes and let her hand revel in the warmth of her skin. Against the shimmering darkness of her shut lids, Elia saw her small tits, the crease of her thighs against her hips, the tiny mole dark against her brown ribs, the slick parting of the lips of her cunt. 

She had peaked on her hand then, and met with the prince already wet and satisfied.

Elia liked to think that they had conceived Rhaenys that night.

And when Elia had laboured to give birth to Rhaenys, it had been Lady Ashara who held her sweaty hand and took command of the chamber in that loud clear voice of hers.

And some time after the tourney at Harrenhal, Lady Ashara had said with a faint tremor in her voice and a twitching hand low on her belly, “Home. Please, Your Grace. I want to go home.”

And Elia had embraced her, stroked her hair, promised her and the little one protection. 

Elia turned away from the window and the pink curtains, and reached for her quill. 

*

Her dear friend Lady Ashara did not fail her.

The Stark girl arrived in the middle of the night with a bundle in her arms.

Elia was sat in her solar, watching as Lady Olga ushered the girl in. And Lady Lyanna was clearly a girl, sixteen at the most, a good decade younger than Elia. The girl’s grey hood was ratty and snow-wet in spots, her dark hair uncombed, and the skin under her dark grey eyes were aggressively smudged with tiredness. 

In the firelight, Lady Lyanna looked nothing more than a solemn, long-faced grey shadow.

The bundle in Lady Lyanna’s arms squirmed.

Elia stared at this bundle for a heartbeat, and said, “Sit. Please.”

Lady Lyanna perched herself on a carved chair by the table. Her eyes kept darting around the chamber: at the curtains, at the fireplace, at the doors, back to the window, a long pause on the table. Then on Elia. The girl’s lips were parched. “Your Grace.”

Elia reached for her jug. She poured boiled water into a spare cup on her tray and placed it in front of Lady Lyanna. “What is your babe’s name?”

Lady Lyanna seemed startled. She licked at her lips. “Brandon, Your Grace. I named him – Brandon.”

Elia did not miss how Lady Lyanna clutched the babe closer to her chest, her wary glance at Elia.

Quite foolish choice of a name. Brandon. Most certainly after that dead heir, that charismatic Brandon Stark, the one who had ridden up to the Red Keep and demanded for Rhaegar to come out and die.

And a boy. Lady Ashara had reported that no legal marriage had taken place. But still. An almost certain cause for a succession crisis in the current climate. Rhaenys was older, but this was not Dorne. The people here got themselves twisted and started civil wars because they had not the sense to not exclude girls in their overly and unnecessarily complicated succession rules.

Elia drummed her fingers against her thigh. She had been waiting for Rhaegar to ride home and stabilise things. Now she had to act fast.

“Drink, my lady,” Elia told her. “It is water. Boiled clean.”

Lady Lyanna’s brows furrowed, but she shifted the babe in her other arm and reached for the cup. “My thanks, Your Grace.” Over her cup she glanced at the doors again.

Elia drummed her fingers some more, watching Lady Lyanna finish the cup. The babe squirmed again, and through the shift in swaddling clothes Elia glimpsed at dark wisps of hair on the small head.

 _Stark_ , thought Elia. Connected through marriage to Tully, fostering to Arryn and to an extent Baratheon, and a botched betrothal to Baratheon. Near half the realm swayed their way.

“You must be exhausted, my lady,” Elia said.

Lady Lyanna blinked. “Oh – yes. Quite. The birth and the journey.”

“Do tell me,” Elia said, pouring another cup for Lady Lyanna, “what are your plans after this trip to King’s Landing?”

Lady Lyanna was still perching on the edge of her seat. “I was thinking – going home sounds lovely. Back to Winterfell. With my babe.”

That surprised Elia. But she only nudged the cup closer to Lady Lyanna to urge her to drink and not keel over from exhaustion.

“But you have a babe,” Elia pointed out. “A babe of the blood. You really plan that both of you will remain in the North?”

“Yes,” Lady Lyanna said, with an almost stubborn jut in her jaw. A shifty glance to the doors once more.

Elia frowned. She considered Lady Lyanna almost at the edge of her seat, Lady Lyanna clutching the babe very close to her chest, Lady Lyanna looking as if she would bolt at the soonest chance.

Softly, Elia said, “I will not hold you here against your will, my lady.” When Lady Lyanna froze and her lower lip briefly trembled, Elia knew then that her supposition was correct, and added, “I only wanted to speak with you.”

“Your Grace, I’m sorry,” Lady Lyanna blurted out. She quickly bit on her lip to stop the trembling, and her eyes were misty, but no tears fell. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I just want to go home. That’s all I ever wanted. No one listened. I just want to go home.”

Elia poured Lady Lyanna another cup. She let the girl recover herself, which Lady Lyanna did with a cold swiftness that almost surprised Elia. In mere moments her face was still and solemn again. A girl’s. Tired, and stern. 

Something in Elia’s chest clenched a little.

“Your babe is of the blood,” Elia resumed, “no matter the circumstance of his birth. And you still want to squirrel both of you to the North? You are familiar with Daemon Blackfyre, yes?”

“I don’t care.” Lady Lyanna set down the empty cup, then seemed to comprehend what she had just said. “No offense meant to Your Grace. I beg Your Grace’s pardon.”

Elia felt her mouth curling up. She sat up straighter on her cushioned chair. “No offense, yes. In fact, I am thinking of offering a betrothal between our children.”

Lady Lyanna gaped at her. 

“A betrothal,” continued Elia, unfazed, “and a co-regency with you, my lady.” She allowed herself a faint smile. “We were both queens, are we not? The rightful queen of the realm and the Queen of Love and Beauty. Queens for the shortest of times, yes, but queens nevertheless.”

Lady Lyanna fretfully rubbed at her forehead. “I was never meant to be queen.”

“Were you not?” Elia said. “I was. And I am extending an offer to you. For the sake of both ourselves and our children.”

Lady Lyanna looked down at her babe, her face troubled and a pained twist to her mouth. She looked so young. Even her grip on the babe looked clumsy.

Elia reached across the table and took her hand. Lady Lyanna startled so that she almost jumped and yanked away her hand but Elia held firm. They said nothing for several moments as they both stared at their joined hands. It was a curious sight, Elia had to admit. Elia’s brown hand, as dainty as her wrist and delicately smooth, grasping with certainness at Lady Lyanna’s hesitant and callused hand, a pale hand which no doubt held weapons, a hand at the end of a tightly muscled horse-rider’s wrist.

“Rhaegar is dead,” said Elia. “The rebellion did not win, but its leaders remain. I am asking you to help me stabilise the realm.” 

Lady Lyanna lifted her eyes and stared at Elia. She felt a tremor pass through the girl’s hand.

Elia lowered her voice and kept her gaze steady. “Do you want for yourself and your son to be a pawn in further machinations? I am asking you to seize this vacuum for ourselves.”

Lady Lyanna’s gaze had shifted to something far away. But Elia would not beg, so she persisted, “You ask for my forgiveness. I ask for your help.” Elia gently squeezed Lady Lyanna’s hand, gently, sweetly, delicately, until Lady Lyanna met her eyes. “And then I will send you home myself, with all my thanks.”

Lady Lyanna’s hand shifted in Elia’s grasp, turning palm up so that she was holding Elia as well. Her tired, tired eyes were steady on Elia, the colour of a dwindling storm but as her fingers tightened their hold on Elia’s, a steely spark gleamed there. 

Finally, Lady Lyanna told Elia, “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


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